All Is But Toys
by AnbarElectrum
Summary: It's the story of Sephiroth's life, at least according to Hojo-he's always been far too attached to his toys... One-shot.
_**A/N: Essentially a character study, relying to a certain extent on my personal headcanon but fully canon-compliant...as far as I can tell. Mild psychological horror elements. 1st person, Sephiroth's POV. I...don't know what else to say about it really, so I'll let it speak for itself.**_ **
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* * *

 _Had I but died an hour before this chance_

 _I had liv'd a blessed life, for from this hour_

 _There's nothing serious in mortality._

 _All is but toys. Renown and grace is dead._

 _The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees_

 _Is left this vault to brag of._

 _Macbeth_ , Act 2, Scene 3

* * *

When I was younger—three, four, five—my father always hated it when I betrayed my age. So one day, he took all of my toys away. I threw such a fit. I broke everything else in my cell, and when I had nothing else to break I sat on the white-tiled floor and stared at the white-painted wall. I would neither eat nor sleep until fatigue overtook me. When it was time for a procedure I refused to come. They had to sedate me and drag me to my father's laboratory.

Everyone got used to the new routine soon enough, and seemed more relieved than worried at my behaviour. I wasn't being noisy and I wasn't destroying Science Department property, so there wasn't a problem.

Until the day I threw a tech into the wall and broke his spine.

He had been very persistent, you see, and wouldn't let me be when I told him to leave. I hadn't meant to put quite so much force behind the throw—I was only four. How could I have known I was strong enough to kill a grown man with my bare hands? Besides, the wall was only dented a little. I couldn't have thrown him _that_ hard.

The next two techs left quickly when I told them to, and that's when my father came in. He was very pleased with how strong I had become, but irritated that he'd had to visit me in person. Why was I being so difficult, he wanted to know. It was only a haircut.

"Because it's _my_ hair," I told him with the foolish, brazen authority of a child—normally I would be terrified, but my first kill had emboldened me; I was _dangerous_ now, and my father had better watch his step. Though really, if the truth must be told, my boldness came not from my actions, which I barely understood at that age, but from the good mood my father was in at this new evidence of the Project's success. I thought he might be willing to indulge me.

I was right, as it happened. No one ever tried to cut my hair against my will again. It grew quite quickly—the enhancements have that effect. In fact, soon I was tripping over it, and I ended up agreeing to have it trimmed. Even in my days commanding an army, I never saw a face as terrified as that of the poor lab tech wielding the scissors as she carefully clipped my hair to knee-length, frightful of failing to meet the exacting standards of the five-year-old-murderer glaring down at her. I recall hearing at some point that the techs drew straws every month to see who would have to walk into the lion's den and clip his mane.

I think we were all a little relieved when my growth slowed as time passed, but the knowledge that fear was a weapon—something I'd always known from bitter experience—was slowly morphing into the realisation that fear was a weapon that _I_ could wield, not the sole domain of my father as I'd always believed.

One foolish evening, bored beyond belief, I knocked on my father's office door—he was there, luckily; I didn't know where his bedroom was. Very solemnly, I met his eyes, which I could just barely see over the top of his desk, and demanded my toys back in the cold, distant tone that sent the techs scurrying to do my bidding. I was already used to command.

Imagine my shock and dismay when my father barely reacted. He looked a little startled, but more than that, _angry._ He told me off for insolence and struck me hard across the face. It didn't really hurt or feel much like anything anymore when he did that, and being a scientist he must have been aware, but I think it made him feel better. For my part, I never bothered pretending to be in pain—he would have just ranted at me for my weakness—but I usually went along with whatever he wanted after that. It was a signal of sorts, that he wanted to punish me, and I knew that if I pushed him further he really would, and it really would hurt. Even after I reached adulthood, he'd wait until I had leave time coming up and treble my mako injections 'for my health', leaving me a shivering wreck like some common addict until I was back on duty. Hitting me became a sort of placebo punishment; it let him vent his frustration and made me do what he wanted.

I went to bed that night with his admonitions ringing in my ears: I was far too attached to my toys.

Later, as I grew older, I rationalised it, as my time was taken up with tactics and military regulations, history and mathematics, and magic and swordplay which were _so_ much better than toys had been. I was getting older, I told myself, and I had better things to worry about. But of course, I was still a child; materia and weaponry became my new toys, and my father would take them away at a moment's notice if he thought I needed to put more effort into my other studies. I was eight by then, and maturely refrained from raising hell. Father was right. I was far too attached to my toys.

When I was twelve, we moved to the primary laboratory at Midgar. I was allowed to look out the window as we approached, hiding my awe at the sight of the half-constructed city. Soon after arrival, I was given a katana and a bracer slotted with materia, deployed with a unit of infantrymen led by a SOLDIER 3rd, pointed at a large group of Wutaian insurgents and told, though it was dressed up in jargon and formality, to go crazy.

It turns out I'm rather good at losing my mind.

For a few blissful minutes, it was the most fun I'd ever had. My enemies were all so slow, so weak, and I thought for a dizzying, heady moment that perhaps my father was right, for among these pathetic creatures what could I possibly be, if not a god?

Then the man fighting beside me dropped, a Wutaian throwing star buried in his throat. No one had thought to issue me a Restore, and there wasn't an oesophagus left to pour one of my few potions down. His eyes met mine and I felt—I don't know what I felt. There are too many emotions that no one ever named for me. I know that this one felt a little like anger, a lot like hatred, and a little bit like the emptiness when my toys were taken away that first time. I know that it hurt worse than anything I'd felt before, even though my body wasn't registering any pain, even though my father had put me through all the fires of hell in an effort to forge me into the weapon I had finally proved myself to be.

I couldn't save him. I knew it. I think he knew it too. I stood over him as he died, cutting down every Wutaian that came near enough. He was gone by the time I heard the order to fall back. I bent down and closed his eyes before joining the retreat.

We gathered behind a little rocky ridge. There had been a little over fifty of us. Now there were fewer than thirty. Wutai had taken casualties as well, but there had been more of them to start. My commanding officer looked shaken, but determined, as he came up with a plan to flank the enemy as they approached the ridge. We divided into two squads, one led by the SOLDIER in charge and the other by his SIC, a dour young sergeant bursting with efficiency and capability.

I should have been on that second squad. It was obvious that I should have been—I was the only other SOLDIER in the unit. Back in those early days of the war the mako-enhanced were few and far between, since the prototype had only recently been confirmed as viable, but much valued in combat; 'tide-turners' was still barracks-room for SOLDIERs by the time I was in my twenties, though it had fallen out of common use. But while I was SOLDIER, I was also twelve, not to mention ShinRa had been very…insistent that I return in more-or-less mint condition, and my CO was determined to keep me and his job safe. So he put me on his squad. I couldn't object, even if the thought had crossed my mind; he was a lieutenant, whereas I was too young yet to receive a commission and was privately employed as a SOLDIER by ShinRa with my father's permission. 3rd Class lieutenant ranks 3rd Class civilian.

Still, I wonder what would have happened if I'd been on that second squad. Only half of them survived. The sergeant was not among them, which saddened me; he'd been gruff, but he'd been the first member of the unit I'd met. Somehow, though I was certain I'd hidden it well, he'd seen I was nervous and smiled at me, razor-thin, the emotion in his eyes rather than the slight curve of his lips. "Don't worry, kid," he'd said. "Army's a family, you know. 'Long as you stick by your brothers and sisters, they'll stick by you." He asked how old I was, and I had dutifully lied: fourteen. Only the lieutenant was supposed to know my real age.

The sergeant laughed in my face. "Ten," he guessed.

"Fourteen," I insisted.

"Eight," he suggested, raising a cocky eyebrow.

"…Twelve," I admitted, and his smile turned a little sad as he clapped me on the back.

"World's going mad," he muttered, and told me to stick by him. "Good practice," he said. I was confused, until he explained: practice for him, not me. "For when my son's your age," he said, looking prouder than I thought fathers could be of their children. "He's going to be a troublemaker," he added, shaking his head, "like his old man. I can just tell."

I saw him fall from across the battlefield, blond hair soaked red with blood, and the taken-away feeling from earlier returned, stronger and hotter. I learned Octaslash that day. Not a single Wutaian survived.

My father objected when I requested leave to attend the funerals of the men and women who'd fallen in my first battle. "Don't get so sentimental about the cannon fodder, boy," the professor scoffed. _You're far too attached to your toys._

That was the first and last time I snuck out of the labs, and I paid dearly for it. But it was worth it. I hung back during the ceremony itself, afraid of being seen, recognised, caught. When it was all over, though, and the friends and comrades and families had all been packed into black cars and driven away, I crept up to the line of tombstones. I recognised every name, but felt a pang of shame when I realised I couldn't match most of them to faces. The sergeant's name I found easily, though; him, I knew I would remember. The Turks found me standing at his grave hours later, staring at the graven letters, determined to etch them into my mind.

Two years later, on the night before my first official mission, I stood in front of the mirror in my quarters— _my_ quarters, not the cell of the professor's precious specimen—and whispered my own name. Lieutenant Sephiroth, SOLDIER 2nd Class.

When I woke in the morning, I made sure there was a Restore slotted securely in my bracer before moving out. I saluted my captain dutifully, stood at attention and pretended to listen to his speech, but my eyes were moving up and down the line as he called roll. Every face, every name, committed to memory forever. This time, when the unit was broken down into three teams, I was in charge of my own, as the third-highest-ranking officer on the mission. I whispered another name as I waited for my captain's signal, the gruff blond sergeant's face flashing through my mind.

Zephyr Strife.

I wondered then if every mission I would ever be a part of was doomed to fall apart from the very beginning. Soon I was no longer the third-highest-ranking officer present. I was in command.

With the world crumbling around me, I counted, because I couldn't think of anything else to do as I waited for my mind to clear: I experienced approximately four seconds of blind, edge-of-passing-out panic when the realisation hit, and then I issued the order to fall back to base camp. The first battle I commanded ended in failure—but not in massacre, and that was success enough for me that day.

Everyone who had some sort of healing materia, myself included, worked their way through the wounded, saving those who could be saved and comforting those who couldn't. I had no illusions that I could bring comfort to the dying; I didn't know what to do or say, so I sat by the corporal I had failed to save (one of so, so many I'd failed to save) and simply looked at her. She looked back and whispered something. If my senses hadn't been enhanced by years of bioengineering and mako enhancement, I never would have heard her soft, raspy assurance that everything would be okay.

The last time I ever cried was ten years earlier, when I was four—the toys. But the tightness of my chest and the stinging of my eyes was the same feeling I remembered from then, as I realised I hadn't just failed to comfort the corporal; she'd had to comfort _me,_ with her very last words. Words that should have been precious breaths, extra seconds of life; words that should have been a message for her loved ones. Words that shouldn't have been wasted on something like me.

I left the infirmary tent after that, feeling sick and worthless, and knowing that come the dawn I'd have to lead this unit back into battle. ShinRa would not accept failure. The professor would not accept incomplete results. And I would not accept defeat. Not now.

Not ever.

I almost thought they would refuse to follow me, given my inexperience and the total collapse of the day before. I was nearly proven right in my suspicion, too, after I outlined my strategy. I believe they thought me insane. I glared at them and repeated my orders clearly, slowly, and icily, in the same dispassionate, haughty voice that only the professor had ever truly been able to ignore. I don't know if they accepted my leadership, or if they simply concluded that I was indeed insane and it was the kind of insane they didn't want to be on the wrong side of. Either way, just like the techs always had, the unit— _my_ unit—leapt into action.

There were more deaths. Most of them were Wutaian. The remains of my unit were quietly, professionally astounded: we'd won.

I returned to Midgar to find myself newly a captain and was immediately dispatched in command of another unit bound for Imperial territory. I wasn't sure how to feel about that. Promotions could come quickly in wartime, I knew that, but even so, had I really earned it? Was I ready to lead again—ready to make another group of strangers whose only link to me was the colours we wore _(brothers and sisters, Army's a family)_ live and die at my word? To make them, in an odd but unquestionable way, _mine?_ I'd actually begun to feel somewhat fond of the men and women who had unexpectedly come under my authority, and miracle of miracles they listened to me, they…trusted me.

Trust?

I don't know if I deserved it. But they thought I did. I understood them, sort of, at least on a professional level, and they were willing to follow me. Couldn't I just stay a lieutenant and lead them? The professor was quick to scold me for such an emotional response. He was right, of course. Still far too attached to my toys, I suppose.

I rose quickly through the ranks. By the time I was eighteen I was a decorated war hero, a SOLDIER 1st Class, and the General of the Army and damn it by then I _knew_ I'd earned it. I wanted it. I _needed_ to be the one to reclaim the top brass, to stand between _my_ soldiers (and they were all mine by then, whether they knew it or not) and the architects of this bloody, endless, _pointless_ war. I hated all of them in a petty, seething way, hated the way they saw numbers where I saw corpses, hated the way they threw around terms like _acceptable losses_ and _collateral damage_ as if they were talking about the damned stock market. Hated the way Heidegger talked about my people as if they were his and never gave a damn. Envied the way Tseng stood aloof. Admired the way Lazard never could, how he took every order but came to every SOLDIER's funeral, and despised him all the more for it when the time came for him to wash his hands of us all. And he did, without hesitation, without a second thought or backward glance, leaving me to take his place.

Aside all the death, which I was used to, life was good for me in those years. I had some combination of respect, admiration, and fear from every soldier under my command. I even had friendship from a few of them. I wasn't normal. I was never going to be normal. But for a little while, I didn't care. No one was normal in my world, not warm, nature-loving Angeal who could break iron in his bare hands and spent most of his free time mastering the arts of the soufflé and the bonsai, not wild, egotistical Genesis who'd fling fireballs and poetry at anyone who'd stop long enough to be a target for either and spent most of _my_ free time informing me that I needed to get laid. Badly.

Then an old, battered broadsword snapped, and my world shattered.

 _I_ shattered.

The thing about being broken is that there's only so small the pieces can get after a while. First you wait, praying someone will save you. Then you rage, lashing out, hoping someone will end you, or at least try.

You tried. And when you leapt at me with fury in your eyes, I raised my blade and felt your father's sharp smile curve my lips.

You tried. You failed.

It takes time, and pain, but finally there comes a point when you simply can't be broken anymore, and it's like being whole again, whole and completely invulnerable _._ There's _nothing_ more that anyone can do to you. That is my gift, do you understand now? How many times did I tell you of it, the gift of despair, and you scorned my words, scorned my offering!

It's quite infuriating, really.

And so you cling to me, cling to the illusion that _I_ am the problem. To the hope that your salvation lies in my death. How many times must I die at your hands to dispel that hope? I've told you of this, too, warned you that your vain, fragile hope was killing you, _a disease that's eating you alive,_ and still you refuse to listen. You keep trying. You keep _hoping_. I almost have to wonder at this point—is it _my_ death you seek, or your own? Do you think _redemption_ is waiting for you? That by dying, you can atone? There is no forgiveness on the other side, no reward. The Lifestream will not wash away your sins, _hero._ Am I not proof of that? All that awaits you in death is oblivion. But perhaps that suits you. Maybe it isn't redemption you want at all. Maybe all you want is for this to end.

The question is moot. I'll never really be gone as long as you can draw breath…and I will _never_ kill _you,_ Cloud. No matter how much you beg. Because I don't think it _is_ forgiveness you're seeking, oh no—I offered you that long ago, and still you defied me. Why must you _always_ defy me?

Oh, come now. Don't glare at me so. I can barely see your eyes when you do that. And I want to see your eyes, puppet; I want to _see_ the moment your last hope _dies._ Look at me.

I _said._ Look. At. Me.

There now, that wasn't so difficult, was it? See how much simpler everything is when you do as I say? You should—oh, now _that_ was an eye-roll. Really, Cloud _,_ I know you can't speak right now, but that doesn't give you the right to be _rude_.

Where was I…? Oh yes. _Forgiveness._ You reject it at every turn, no matter who offers it, and I know why. It's simple, really. You're _not_ looking for redemption, not anymore. You're looking for _liberation._ But it's nowhere to be found, not here, not in life. That's why oblivion is so appealing to you, isn't it? _Yes._ Where others see void, you see hope—a chance at freedom. And I will not grant you that, _Strife_ , do you understand me? _I will never set you free._ You're mine, and you don't _get_ to die because _I won't let you_.

Yes, I know. I really _should_ kill you. It would make everything so much easier for both of us. But you see, I always have been far too attached to my toys…


End file.
